The Long Shot
by ShinySherlock
Summary: Somehow, he will have to earn her love, and quickly, a wooing more rushed than he would have liked, but a wooing just the same. And if he knows Emma Swan at all, the best way to win her affection will be to tell the truth.


_Notes: Had a plot bunny and had to get it out before the new eps start again and this gets completely jossed. Thanks to i_ship_an_armada for beta-ing an early draft of this. Any errors you see here are mine, all mine. SPOILERS for s3e11 "Going Home"._

* * *

Prince and princess lay side by side, eyes closed and bodies still. The mountain of blankets on them cannot keep the blue tinge from their lips, their skin.

"We need her," the pirate says, weary from arguing.

The queen frowns up at him from her seat near the bed. "It's not going to work."

Jones only cocks his head to the side and says, "It's _unlikely _to work."

"True Love's Kiss is a two-way kind of magic, and she wasn't in love with you."

"She was not _yet _in love with me."

Barely restraining a sigh, Regina closes her eyes, and he can tell she is digging for her last ounce of patience with him. "Hook. There's no guarantee you can get there, let alone restore their memories-"

"Look, have you got any better ideas to get us out of this jam?"

She doesn't. He knows this. They've already tried everything they can think of to break the icy curse, to no avail. She looks away, her gaze traveling over to the two forms laid out on the bed. Their chests rise and fall with each breath, but only just.

Jones softens his tone. "How long have they got?"

"Until First Frost. After that, their condition will be . . . irreversible."

"Well, then. I'd best be going." He waits a moment, knowing she won't leave it at that. Whatever else may be true of her, she is fiercely loyal to the boy.

"Tell Henry . . ."

"If my plan works, he'll remember exactly how much you love him."

She swallows and lifts her chin towards the door. "Go."

* * *

Not unexpectedly, rather than swooning on the spot from his kiss, Emma Swan throws Jones into the hallway and slams the door.

The kiss hadn't worked-also not unexpected-and so now it's on to Plan B. Somehow, he will have to earn her love, and quickly, a wooing more rushed than he would have liked, but a wooing just the same. And if he knows Emma Swan at all, the best way to win her affection will be to tell the truth.

The city is a bustling, loud center of commotion day or night, a mad blend of history and modernity in every nook, but Jones is nothing if not a survivor, and, after all, captaining a ship hasn't changed much over time. He starts giving harbor tours on the Jolly Roger, and tourists line up, eager to cruise the shoreline in a real pirate ship with a real pirate at the helm.

However, the hook and his usual garb aren't helping his chances right now with Swan, so after the tours are over, he switches to modern clothes, wraps the hook in cloth.

Every night he follows her, watching from the street until she turns off the lights in the apartment above. Every morning, he sits inside the coffeeshop where Swan purchases her daily mocha. Every day he feeds her another piece of truth.

"My name is Killian Jones. You know me better as Captain Hook. We last saw each other a year ago, when a curse erased your memories."

"I've been with your parents; they need your help."

"You're tough and fair, and you love your son."

Every day she ignores him, buys her drink, and leaves.

On the fourth day, he says, "You have a knack for knowing when someone is lying."

She walks past him and stands in line, but she comes back with two cups.

"You've got fifteen minutes," she says, features neutral, and she sits in the chair opposite him. She sets one paper cup in front of him, and he can't believe his plan worked. Truths tumble out of him. He has practiced, has tried to make the convoluted thing into a narrative that makes sense. Her face remains impassive, and he's certain that it sounds ridiculous. He finishes. Meets her gaze.

Eyes bright, lips parted slightly, she surprises him again.

"I've been having these dreams. Sometimes . . . sometimes, Henry has them, too."

* * *

She invites him for dinner. He arrives on time with wine, and they all share a pizza while Henry asks a million questions, his slice nearly untouched on his plate. Jones wonders if Henry has had even more dreams than Swan is aware of as Henry bombards him.

"So the evil queen is my mom, too, sort of?"

Jones waggles his head. "We call her Regina now, but yes, she raised you until you went off to find your birth mother."

"Mom?" Henry said, indicating Swan.

"Yes."

"And mom's . . . special? Like, she has magic?"

Jones looks over to where Swan sits, without much comment, but he can read the suspicion in her features, her silences. "She was just beginning to learn how to use it, but yes," he answers, turning back to Henry.

"And I'm special?"

"Very. You are the Truest Believer."

"And Mom's the . . . what?"

"The Savior."

"Well, I don't know about that," Swan says, and Jones just smiles, because really, he has seen that look of reluctance and doubt on her face so many times before. "What I do know is that it's time for you to get ready for bed."

"But-"

"No buts. PJs, teeth, let's go."

Henry sighs, but obeys, and Swan smiles to herself as he leave the room. Jones wonders if she can see her own strength, the way she respects her son, how much he respects her.

After Henry has gone to bed, Jones is clearing dishes from the table one-handed, and he chuckles at how disbelieving Swan would be of his helpfulness, if only she remembered him from before. She does the washing, her slender, efficient hands making short work of it, and then they are standing in the kitchen, no chores left to keep them from getting to the point.

She hangs the damp towel on the oven door handle and turns to face him, arms crossed. Waiting.

He takes a step forward to stand closer to her. "I see the doubt on your face, Swan, but still you let me regale you and your son with my stories. Can it be that, somewhere inside, you sense that it's all true?"

She purses her lips and lifts one eyebrow. "I think you think it's true."

Unsurprised, he smiles and huffs out a breath. "And what about your dreams? Henry's dreams?"

She frowns and doesn't answer, because there is no answer other than that the dreams are, in fact, memories. She shifts her weight, leaning a hip against the counter. She is dragging her gaze over his face, her brows drawn together in concentration.

"So what's your plan, Jones? Just gonna hang around until I fall in love with you? Until 'True Love's Kiss'?" She shakes her head slowly once. "Doesn't sound like you got that kind of time."

"Won't take but a minute," he quips, his voice pitched low, because she is smoldering at him in the most delicious way.

"What makes you so sure?" She holds her head high, but her gaze is riveted to his lips.

"Because, once upon a time, you kissed me," he says, stepping closer. "And I remember every touch."

He reaches out with one finger, skimming over the surface of her hair, and she lets him. "Every sigh."

He brings his dark eyes up to hers. "Every tremble."

She arches an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah?"

He nods, leans infinitesimally closer.

She lifts her chin. "Remind me."

This kiss is pure Swan, the heat and intensity of their kiss from the island coming back to him in an instant. Her lips pull at his and he responds, desperately trying to find the balance between scaring her off and letting her know what she does to him. His right hand slides around her waist, and he thrills to feel her fingers slip along the back of his head and press him closer. When she breaks the kiss they are both breathing hard.

"Did it work?" she asks, voice breathy, her hand still at his neck.

"Worked for me," he answers, smiling wickedly.

Her face scrunches up. "No. Did it _work_? Break the curse. Save the princess or whatever."

"Hmm." He looks her over, searches her eyes for any recognition there. "No. I don't believe it did. Maybe we should try again," he suggests, dipping his head towards her.

Her hand slides down to his chest and halts his motion. He steps back.

"Maybe tomorrow." It sounds like a reproof, but he perceives how the corner of her lips pulls up, how her cheeks are delightfully pink.

She may not love him yet. But she desires him. And that, for now, is enough to be getting on with.

* * *

They spend nearly every day in much the same manner, a meal, a conversation that goes a bit further every time, a goodnight kiss that leaves them both breathless and wanting, the kisses deepening, the hands exploring and claiming more territory with each encounter. On the weekends, Jones invites them to spend the days on his ship, and it's so normal, so incredibly easy that Jones finds himself tempted to stay in this world, this time, with her and Henry exactly as they are. But like a knowing parent, the chill in the air chides him, whispers that time is running out.

On the fourteenth day, they wander in the park. Swan and Jones watch from a distance as Henry drives his remote-controlled truck madly along the walkways. The truck gets away from him, cutting into the path of a cyclist, and the rider swerves and skids to a stop. The man's hands are on Henry in an instant, pulling him up by the lapels of his coat, shaking him.

Without thought, Jones peels the man off Henry and throws him towards a tree. In a flash, the hook is out and pressed against the man's throat, Jones more than ready to carve the man from stem to stern.

Having checked Henry over, Swan comes up, and Jones doesn't see her so much as feel her standing behind him, the heat of her anger as perceptible as the fear in the cyclist's eyes.

After a few choice words for the cyclist, she places a hand along Jones' arm. He feels the warmth of it through the fabric of his coat, knows what it means. He drops his hook from the man's throat, and the three of them walk away.

* * *

It's late when they finally take a cab back to the apartment, and Henry nearly falls asleep between them in the backseat. Swan directs her son to his room, helps him onto the bed. She takes off his sneakers and pulls the heavy quilt over him, tucking it around him. Jones retreats to the hall, but he can hear her kiss on the boy's forehead, the whispered, "I love you."

Feeling like an intruder, Jones moves towards the front door, but stops when he hears her shut the boy's door, feels her come to a stop behind him.

"Leaving so soon?" she asks. "I haven't even thanked you."

His eyes widen as he remembers coaxing gratitude from her before, charming the reluctance from her, and here she is offering thanks.

He turns to see her standing straight, her arms along her sides, and he can't help but picture her holding a shining sword in one hand.

"You don't need me to protect your son."

She half-shrugs. They both know it's true.

"And you don't need to thank me."

She narrows her eyes at him. "Maybe I want to."

Stepping towards Jones, Swan closes the distance between them, her hands sliding up to grip the lapels of his jacket. He catches her, his arms sliding around her waist, and his gaze stays steadily on hers though his heart skitters. He loves her, has for over a year now, and the thought that she can't see it, that she can be here in his arms and not feel it in return makes his stomach clench with regret.

He expects another searing kiss, a repetition of the dance they've been doing, but instead she simply looks at him, and he sees the bravado leave her eyes.

"You tell me these things, about Henry, about me. I'm not sure I want to believe it all."

It feels like goodbye, and Jones can't help a sad smile.

"But maybe, some of it." His brow raises a bit in hope, and she continues. "Some of it, maybe, I want to believe."

He doesn't dare breathe, and stays frozen as she fingers the edges of his shirt along his neck.

"That I'm . . . magical. And royal."

That she says it without doubt or irony feels like a miracle, and shakes him from his suspended state. "You are."

"That I'm a badass with a sword," she goes on, a sparkle in her eye.

His voice deepens with conviction. "A dragon-slayer."

"That I'm brave. And strong." Her voice wavers, and she looks down as she speaks, staring at her fingers on the collar of his shirt.

"You're the strongest person I know."

She swallows and looks back up at him. "When I try to see myself-the way _you _see me-I can almost believe it. I want to believe it."

Heart soaring, he tightens his hold on her. "It's true, love. All of it. I swear it."

Her eyes are shining, and for a wild moment she seems close to tears. He runs his hand along her back, up and down, and her hand slides up, fingers caressing at the edge of his jaw.

She takes a fluttery breath in and says, "I want to love you."

A wave of hope and love flows through him, and his body moves ever closer to hers. He maneuvers his right hand around from her back, brings it up to cup the side of her face.

"You're the most determined person I know across three worlds, Swan. You let nothing stand in your way. Everything you want-" He swallows, and his fingers sink back into the hair behind her ear. "It's yours. You need just claim it."

She inhales, as though taking a breath before a dive, and she lifts her lips to his. Her kiss is careful, and more tentative than any other they've shared. He responds in kind, his lips slow and gentle. He can feel her deciding between belief and doubt, hope and cynicism, and he senses the moment when she chooses to believe.

He feels her trembling, and then a violent shudder rolls through her. She breaks their kiss and her startled, wide eyes look up at him.

She breathes out his name. "_Hook_?"

He blinks at her in astonishment, barely able to nod. Her eyes dart over his face, his clothes, and her head turns away, towards the hallway.

"Henry-"

"He's all right, love. You're both all right."

She sinks against him, but he's ready for it, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, his other arm secure around her waist. Regina had warned him; remembering the truth could be quite rough. Swan's eyelids flutter, and her body slumps a little in his arms.

"I've got you," he nearly coos, but she's out.

He moves her over to the sofa, laying her gently upon it. He watches her breathe, presses two fingers along her wrist and counts. He pulls the blanket down from the back of the sofa, spreading it over her.

He takes a moment to marvel. At magic. At love. At her.

He leans to kiss her on the swell of her cheek and then goes to check on the boy.


End file.
